


Mazdan

by MasterMaple



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Death, Even The Gods Are Full Of OCs, Gen, POV Second Person, Torture, Training from Hell, Unsullied Training, ah hell, they're all original characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 21:22:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29740062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MasterMaple/pseuds/MasterMaple
Summary: Your name is Mazdan. You are born and live the first five years of your life in a darkened cellar in Astapor, beneath the pyramid of some tradesman or other. Most of the time you are left in darkness, or brought out to play with the other slave children in a dusty courtyard while your mother works. At night she tells you stories of a faraway place of rolling hills and open pasture, and the Great Shepherd that watches over all his flock. She hums lullabies to you and rocks you to sleep.Then comes your sixth year.A story of boys being made into soldiers. The bloody, sordid reality behind the Unsullied.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	Mazdan

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mouli_sv](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mouli_sv/gifts).



Your name is Mazdan. You are born and live the first five years of your life in a darkened cellar in Astapor, beneath the pyramid of some tradesman or other. Most of the time you are left in darkness, or brought out to play with the other slave children in a dusty courtyard while your mother works. At night she tells you stories of a faraway place of rolling hills and open pasture, and the Great Shepherd that watches over all his flock. She hums lullabies to you and rocks you to sleep. 

Then comes your sixth year. You are brought out to the yard to play, while some men in golden robes chat with your Master on his balcony. Sometimes you look up and see them watching you. At the end of the day they don’t let you go back to the cellar, they drag you out into the street and when you cry and try to get away they hit you. They take you to another pyramid, where you can hear the distant clash of metal on metal. They throw you into a different cellar with other boys your age, a riot of different faces and voices. You chatter quietly to each other, sharing names. A boy named Deziel with tanned skin and hair the color of castor oil asks you your name. “Mazdan.” you say for the last time, though you don’t know it yet.

The next day they tell you why they have brought you here. You are to be Unsullied, warriors who will stand in the battle line and never break or run, even against the end of the world. They tell you stories of ten men holding off hundreds, of three thousand Unsullied breaking a _Khalasar_ of Dothraki on their spears. You don’t know what a _Khalasar_ is, and you don’t want to stand in a battle line or hold a spear, just go home to your mother. But you keep your mouth shut after a boy named Aelios says much the same and one of the men in armor and a pointed helmet runs him through with a spear. They leave him there, dying slowly and loudly as the Master finishes his speech. 

Then they take you to an arena open to the sun, the place you had heard the clattering metal sounds coming from the night before, and make you run laps barefoot in the sand and lift weights until you cry and throw up. One boy collapses, and when the men with you whip him and tell him to rise he says he can’t. They kill him too. You weep and retch and ache, but you know better than to stop, working until you feel like a wrung-out wet cloth. When the sun is directly overhead, looming like a great burning eye, the masters finally let you rest and drink from a trough of water, kneeling alongside the other boys as you lap at it like a dog. 

That night you learn what a Dothraki is. “I’m a Dothraki.” A boy named Zharro says, speaking Low Valyrian with a strange accent. “My mother says I am a son of Khal Bhorta. He will come looking for me someday, and free all of us, and you can ride the Great Grass Sea with me instead of going back to that place.” You ask if your mother can come with you, and a number of the other boys join in, until Zharro solemnly promises you upon his honor that everyone’s mothers and brothers and sisters can come with them when Bhorta frees them.

The next morning they ask you to draw two clay tiles from two pots. On one is painted a color: on another the shape of some animal. The two boys to your left draw a rat and a fly. You hope for a tiger, but you draw brown and a cockroach instead. “This is your name.” The Master who had spoken to you yesterday says, and up close you can see he has a handsome face and dark eyes and a faint scar on his chin. “Say your name.” 

You only say “I” before the back of his hand snaps your head back and leaves you seeing stars. “You are not a person.” He says, as if he were telling you that the sky was blue. “You are a thing, a weapon. You are an Unsullied. You do not say ‘I’ anymore. You say ‘This one’. Do you understand?” You nod, hoping not to get slapped again and too frightened to blink the spots dancing before your eyes away while he is looking at you. “This one is Brown Cockroach.” You say. The other boys continue in turn, and then they place their tiles back in the pot so that they can choose new names tomorrow. Then they go to the arena again and run and lift weights and throw up, though fewer cry this time. At midday you eat a meal of bread and broad beans, and drink water from the trough, and then you keep working until sundown. 

This continues for many days, you think perhaps a turn of the moon. You are still able to whisper to each other, and you giggle and tease each other about the names you drew each night and what you might get this morning. Deziel makes up similar names for the Masters who train you, calling the bearded fat one Black Slug and the old man with no nose Grey Pigeon. Soon there come four days in a row where none of you die, and hardly anyone cries or throws up still. You are glad, smiling at each other in the dark. You shouldn’t be.

On the day you are cut, you draw the name Blue Wasp. You are marched through the streets, and to your surprise you see masters and slaves alike stopping to watch you as you pass. You look for the face of your mother, but you don’t see her. They march you to the sea and order you to bathe in it, and scrub yourselves clean. Twice you come out of the water and they make you go back in, until your skin feels raw and your teeth are chattering. Then they march you along the coast, until your feet are sore and you come to an arena even larger than the old one. You can see blood on the sand as you file past it, to a square where a brazier is burning and more of those soldiers with spears and spiked helmets stand guard around you. Above it there as a figure of a lady hammered in wrought iron, a spear and round shield in her hand as she strikes down a cowering foe. 

She is the Lady of Spears, you are told, the only goddess you will ever pray to, the only one who can deliver you when you stand against your Master’s foes. You will dedicate your manhood to her, and learn her true name, that she will listen to you when you cry out for her. You are made to line up, and one by one you march up to the altar, and another wailing boy is carried away after the swift stroke of a knife. A few boys try to run, but the men in spiked helmets catch them on their spears and fling the bodies into the dust before straightening up as if they had not moved at all. You hate them more than anything in the world, your heart hammering in your ears as the line between you and the altar grows shorter, until it hammers in your temples like your skull is going to burst and you too sob and wail. 

Your knees give out when you stand before the altar, but the handsome Master seizes you in an iron grip and pulls you to him, mutters a few words, and then comes blinding, agonizing pain. He whispers the name of the goddess in your ear, and then one of the men in spiked helmets grabs you and carries you to a darkened place where you are laid down on a couch of some sort. You scream and scream until a woman in a bright green robe comes and gives you something to drink that makes the pain recede to a dull ache, and leaves you feeling like you are floating on the softness of the couch. You are still sniffling, and your throat is raw, but then you are given cool water to drink and a dark shape is placed on the bed. It is a puppy, with a white spot around one eye, and it seems just as frightened as you are. Eventually it curls into your side, shaking, and you hold it close as you drift off to sleep.

You rest for many days afterwards: not every boy survives the cutting, dying from shock or infection, though the Masters work hard to save their lives. “These ones are valuable now.” The handsome Master says, as he paces across the cellar, inspecting you as you rest. The puppy stays with you. You feed her tidbits from your meals, and are given a little bowl to pour water into for her to lap up. You remember your mother’s stories about shepherds guarding the little sheep with their slings and bringing them to streams to drink, and name her Lamb. Every so often the men in spiked helmets come and take the dogs out of the cellar to walk and relieve themselves, but Lamb comes running back to your more and more eagerly every day. 

Each of the other boys gets a puppy of his own. At first you are all still too tired and in pain to talk, the weight of the memories of being cut hanging over you like a dark cloud, but as Lamb and the other dogs grow larger and begin to chase each other around the cellar, you all begin to laugh again and chatter to each other at night. Deziel jokes about the Lady of Spears, says that the smoke from the fire wafting behind her in the wind made her look like the Lady of Farts. You laugh, but quietly. You know the Masters live above you now.

When the Masters think you have rested enough they bring you out to the arena: but now you only spend the morning running and lifting weights. In the afternoons you are given spears and shields and armor sized for you, and taught how to hold the weapons, how to stand straight, and then they make you stand under the hot sun for hours. Any sign of fidgeting or slumping is met with the whip. Two boys who faint are killed. You drill like this for day after day, first at rest and then practicing with your shields up and spears at the ready, your instructors walking up and down the rows of boys to swiftly and violently correct any wavering spear or drooping shield. Then you learn footwork, how to keep your feet against an opponent throwing all his weight into you, how to get as much force as possible behind a spear thrust or save your left arm by moving your whole body to bring your shield round rather than just your hand. 

All the while, Lamb is with you, and you are made to care for her, and given the key to the small garden by the cellar ringed by walls too high and sheer to climb, where you may take her to relieve herself and exercise. You help the other boys look after their dogs too, and though their names change every day the names they give their dogs remain the same. Zharro calls his golden-furred pup some mess of sounds that he says means Thunderbolt. Deziel says it sounds more like a hairball caught in the throat as he tosses scraps of meat for his dog to catch out of the air. He has named his Tortoise, for its spotted fur. 

When the weather turns colder you are marched through the city gates, and see the countryside for the first time. You are taught how to set up a tent, how to make a fire, how to hunt a deer in a group of ten and butcher it to grace your Master’s table. One boy tries to steal one of the hunting spears, but one of the spiked-helm guards catches him and kills him. You are all made to spend the next day running ten miles through the woods with a heavy pack as punishment. The last of you to finish will be killed too. Lamb tries to run alongside you, but she grows too tired to keep up, so you place her in your pack and run with her. She seems to like the feeling of the wind in her face, and even though your lungs are burning and your legs feel as heavy as lead you cannot help but smile as you hear her panting in her ear and occasionally feel her lick your shaved scalp. You are one of the first to cross: the last is a boy from Naath, who you didn’t speak with much. You can’t remember his real name, just the one he drew that morning. White Flea.

You return to the city, and begin to drill once more with shield and spear and short sword, and even to fight real opponents with blunted, wooden weapons. Your instructors come from the fighting pits, and are not gentle. They bruise you, and bloody you, and sometimes break bones. You teach Lamb to fetch a stick you throw for her, and share a smile with Deziel as the puppies chase whichever of them has the stick around the room. Zharro does not smile, but he has a look of fierce pride on his face whenever Thunderbolt gets the prize, and watches them attentively at their play. 

“Lamb is very clever.” He tells you. “Whenever she chases the one with the stick, she steers it into the others and tries to get it when they fight for it.” He thinks a moment more, watching the familiar speckled blur of Deziel’s pup dart under a couch with the others in pursuit. “Tortoise is the fastest.” He says. Deziel finds that funny for some reason. “Who is the strongest?” You ask, and Zharro looks insulted as he gives the biggest piece of meat in his stew to Thunderbolt, his tail wagging as he licks his face. “That’s obvious.” He says, and though you know enough by now not to laugh where the masters can hear you, you smile.

You drill in formation. You are broken up into groups of ten, and Deziel and Zharro are in yours. You practice marching forward, marching back, left wheel, right wheel, opening and closing ranks, locking shields. After two weeks of drilling they put Zharro in charge. Apparently they have been watching him when he watches the pups. He does not boast or brag, but you notice him strut a little as you walk back to the cellar at the end of training. That evening you see him going from bed to bed, talking to the other eight boys in the group before he heads over to you. Deziel glances over at you and grins again, tapping his head in a gesture you now know indicates craziness.

His face is grave, Thunderbolt trotting obediently behind him before sitting at his feet. “Is everything alright?” He asks. “Yes.” You say, giving him a puzzled look. He holds up your linen sheet between his thumb and forefinger, looking at it appraisingly. “Are your sheets warm?” You look out, baffled, at the rows of identical beds around you. “They are thin and scratchy, like yours.” You say. “But I’m not cold.” He reaches up to pat your pillow. “And this isn’t too hard or lumpy?” He says. “It’s fine.” You say, throwing up your hands in exasperation. “So you’re able to sleep at night?” He says, looking you in the eye and putting a hand on your shoulder. “Why do you ask me these things?” You reply, and he somehow manages to look even more serious. “A leader should know these things, to look after his men.” 

You are not a man yet, and the Masters say you never will be a man, just a soldier, but something aside from that makes you tilt your head in confusion. “How would you have fixed it if I had said no?” You ask, and although you meant no insult by it Zharro’s face flushes red with anger and he stalks off without a word. Thunderbolt mimics him, even turning to give a haughty, gruff yelp to Lamb, sprawled on your bed. She looks back at him with one half-lidded eye and shows her lack of concern by breaking wind.

But Zharro is a good leader, and your group of ten makes it through the year without failing badly enough for anyone to be killed. You go out to the countryside twice more, and grow bigger and stronger, you a little and Lamb a lot. You practice keeping your feet in formation as you clash shields with another group of ten, seeking to push each other over. Zharro usually leads you to victory. But the Masters do not let any of you grow too haughty: though none of you die, all of you feel the lash at least once, Zharro several times. It turns his pride into a shrivelled and hidden thing, showing its face again in the cellar in the evenings when Thunderbolt checks the other dogs aside and masters every trick he’s taught. Lamb doesn’t learn any new tricks, but she always nuzzles close to you at night, and so you still think that she’s the best of all the pups.

On the last day of the year, you draw the name Yellow Mouse. You are assembled in the arena in your groups of ten, don armor and take up your shields and spears. The handsome Master is watching with the others from a balcony as you do your morning drills and march to and fro, as you do your daily scrum and practice your footwork, alone and together. It makes you nervous, but Zharro acts as if he were not there, and you follow his example. Deziel’s footwork is so quick that he sends the pit fighter with his wooden sword toppling into the dust as he tries to keep up with him. None of the boys laugh, but you hope he notices them raising their shields to cover their smiles. 

You hear the sounds of gongs and drums and singing in Astapor, the city celebrating the new year. Torches are lit around the arena to keep it lit as the sun begins to set, but to your surprise you are not sent back to the cellar. You are ordered to form up, each soldier with his puppy sitting at his feet, and then one by one you step forward and announce its name and march a lap around the arena with it at your side. Each time the boy is given a fine cut of meat to give to his dog. You step forward. “This one’s pup, given by the grace of their Master, is called Lamb.” You announce, and pace the edge of the arena without putting a foot wrong. Ordinarily the cuts of meat in your stew are tough and chewy, but this one is bloody raw and marbled with fat. Lamb takes it from your fingers, careful not to snap at them, and swallows it in two bites, tail wagging. 

Then you are ordered to march to the pavilion with the altar and the brazier, the one dedicated to the Lady of Spears. The only thing keeping your hands from shaking is how tightly they clutch your weapons; the only thing keeping your feet from faltering is months upon months of drilling. Yet all of you form up before the altar, and do not turn a head. Lamb senses your unease and sits right at your feet, her ears low: you feel her weight as she leans on your leg. The handsome Master stands before the brazier, and speaks to you. 

“The Lady of Spears has blessed you.” He said. “She has helped you pass this first year, the first step on the long march to becoming a perfect soldier, a tempered spear and a stout shield in the hands of the one who buys you. It is in her name that I gave you these pups, to ease the pain of your cutting, and for you to care for. But what your master gives, he can take back. Step forward, you in the front, and tell me your name.”  
  
“This one is Green Spider.” Zharro says, the quaver in his voice nearly undetectable, his grip on his shield and spear rock steady. “I saw your pup in the arena.” The Master says. “It pleased me to see how well you trained him.” He pauses, looks down at the pup gazing up at him with its head held high. “It pleases me no longer.” He says. “Kill it.”

Zharro hesitates for only a moment, going stiff backed as a statue. Then, mechanically, he lets go of his shield, lets it hang at his hip by its shoulder strap. Passes the spear from his right hand to his left, smacks the butt against the flagstones with a resounding _crack_ as he nestles it in the crook of his shoulder. Stiffly, mechanically reaches down and plucks Thunderbolt up by the scruff of its neck. You see even as he does so how his thumb scratches behind its ears, softly. Then he pulls it close to his chest, where you can only see his arms tense and flex and hear something snap. 

The handsome Master nods. “It is customary to make an offering to the Lady of Spears in the new year. Something precious. Cast it into the brazier.” Zharro grasps his spear in his left hand and takes three paces forward, his legs so stiff it seems he almost has to jerk them into motion and nearly falls flat on his face. He drops a bundle of fur into the flames, returns to his place, takes up his spear and shield again and rasps “This one is proud to have performed his duty.” He holds his head unnaturally still as the handsome Master moves to the next in line. 

When his turn comes, Deziel does it fast, looking the Master in the eye all the while. There is a hint of a sniffle in his voice. Others choke back sobs. Other than that, there is nothing more. Lamb jerks to her feet when you step forward, quailing even as she lets out a low rumble and stands between you and the Master. You feel your heart pound in your ears again, your stomach so full of butterflies you think you might be sick, but somehow you manage to speak. 

“This one is Yellow Mouse.” You say, dropping your shield and passing your spear from hand to hand with numb fingers. You cannot seem to muster the strength to bend down, and for an awful moment you think you cannot do it, that you will get a spear thrust through your back. Your eyes turn to the Lady, her iron face impassive, the flames giving them a dull, flickering glow, and you find the strength to bend down, to sooth Lamb with a scratch under the chin even as you bring your other hand to her neck.

It is the longest eight paces you have ever taken. The heat of the brazier reminds you of the cutting, and you almost forget to pull your hand back in time to not get burned. You return to the line, take up your shield and spear again. Wish it had a sharp point to drive into the Master’s belly as you choke out “This one is proud to have performed his duty.” 

The cellar is quiet that night, save for some stifled crying. The worst is Zharro. You can see his shoulders shaking as he buries his face in his pillow, the muffled sobs still audible in the heavy silence. He mutters words to himself too. _“Mai_ .” You hear him say, when he raises his head for a moment to gasp for breath. _“Mai._ ”

You dream that night. You dream of your mother in the cellar, singing you a lullaby of the flocks laying down by a riverbank; you dream of roaming across the hills she told you stories of, with a black, furry shape flitting excitedly through the tall grasses. You see the Lady of Spears, cast in iron, and weep, and then you fly into a rage and start to strike at her and kick at her even as the metal hurts your hands and feet and scrapes the skin from your knuckles, even as you break bones against her. Then her arms are around you, holding you fast as you curse her and tell her you hate her and hope the Wolf of the Evening gobbles her up, and then you feel your close-shorn hair grow damp as she presses her face against the top of your head and realize with a start that she is crying too.

You awaken in the morning feeling parched and worn out, your eyes aching and the taste of salt on your lips. Zharro does not get up for a long time, even though he knows by now that he will be beaten badly if he is sleeping still when the Masters come to march them out for training. Lyaro, one of the other boys in his group of ten, tries to shake him awake, but Zharro just buries his head in his pillow and slaps his hand away. Deziel sits on his bed still bare to the waist, looking at him thoughtfully.

“Zharro.” He says. “My shoulder is still sore from where the Master hit it yesterday. Could you help me with my tunic?” Zharro lays there for a moment more, curling up into an even tighter ball, but after a moment he untenses and slowly rises to his feet. His eyes are puffy and red-rimmed from crying, with dark bags underneath. “Wait a moment.” He says, his voice so husky it’s almost a whisper. “Let me dress myself and I will help you.” Deziel makes a token effort to pretend his shoulder really is injured, but you know as well as Zharro does that none of the Masters landed a blow on him in the arena. But it seems to help Zharro walk a little taller, going from bed to bed to check on each of the ten. He mutters an apology to Lyaro, helps Ghizir make his bed. He says nothing when he comes to you, just looks for a moment. You touch him on the shoulder, not sure what else to do when so much of your mind is also taken up by mourning Lamb. 

You do not go to train that day. Instead you march to the sea once more, strip naked and once again scrub yourself. “To purify yourself for the New Year.” The Handsome Master says. When you had first done this it had been annoying. You had wanted to get out of the water, had gotten tired of the cold and the way the waters had chapped at you. Now you dive in headfirst and focus on scrubbing for a long time, until your skin is raw. You see Zharro floating listlessly, staring out at the sunset. Deziel gives you a nervous glance until a mischievous grin comes over him. He glances at the Masters onshore, who aren’t really watching the sea right now, talking with one another and turning to look at the elegant ladies being carried past on palanquins in those funny dresses that leave one breast hanging out. He swims a little closer to Zharro, so natural in the water it almost seems he was born in it, and then splashes the back of his head.

He reacts first with shock, then with fury, turning to grab Deziel, but the water that slows him down seems to simply part around Deziel as he glides out of reach, laughing, and then Zharro comes barreling after him, sending up spray with each step. You smile, for a moment, but you don’t join in. Your thoughts are elsewhere as you scrub and scrub until your skin turns red and your hands are wrinkled like an old man’s. You duck your head under the water and hardly notice the cold, blow a trail of bubbles and watch them rise to the surface. 

You like how distant and muffled everything sounds down here. Like it’s a whole different world. You open your eyes even though the salt stings them, and look out into the darkness. You wish you could have taken your mother here, before the Masters decided to make you Unsullied. You wonder if she had any stories to tell you about the ocean. Your lungs start to burn, and you’ve sunk a little since you’ve been floating here so you kick your feet, and start to rise, squinting against the salt spray. But just before you break the surface and start to swim towards the beach for the long march back, you think you see the figure of an iron lady with a spear in hand and a helm on her head, watching you from the deep.

The next few years are not nearly so painful. More boys die, from failing trials of speed and strength and endurance, but nothing so terrible as the day you were cut or the day you strangled Lamb. You learn the ways of the other two spears, the long pike you must hold in two hands and the one with a longer head for hewing as well as thrusting: you learn to fight bare-handed and to wield a sword.

You learn these things by being hurt by instructors, by battering each other with fists and wooden spears. You break Zharro’s nose with the hilt of your sword: he pulls your shoulder out of its socket, wrestling with you. Ghizir refuses to hit Deziel, and is killed for it. 

They give you a draught to drink for the pain, the same one poured down your throat by the woman in green on the day you were cut. You have been given a little of it every day at dinner for the first year, but now they have begun to give you full cups of it, enough at first to make you swoon just from smelling it. They call it wine of courage, but it doesn’t make you feel any braver: it just makes you feel nothing.

They teach you to throw javelins and darts, and have you practice on slaves who tried to escape their masters. They are tied to wooden poles, blindfolded and gagged. Then they no longer wear blindfolds, looking at you with tearful, begging eyes. Then they remove the gags, and the targets weep and wail and spit curses and gnash their teeth, scream when a poor throw pierces them in the belly or nails their leg to the wood. “Your foes will be screaming in battle as well.” The Masters remind you. “You must ignore them.” The wine of courage makes it easier, but you dream about them when it starts to wear off in your sleep. Sometimes you dream it is your mother tied to the pole, calling out to you, though you’re not sure if you can remember her face. Other times you dream that you yourself are tied there, looking back at yourself, a boy of eight with a fuzz of hair on his scalp and empty eyes as he lets the dart fly. 

You take more trips into the woods, learn scouting and tracking and means of survival. You learn to hunt a fleeing foe when they set your group of 10 upon a disobedient slave girl, given a day’s head start on a mountain near the city, and give you three days more to find her. You catch her on the second day, when Zharro runs her down and runs her through. It seems to trouble him afterwards. At first he quaffs more of the wine of courage, but then comes the day when you stand your first vigil before the altar of the Lady of Spears, moving in lockstep around her brazier for a whole night, with Zharro leading you. 

He tells you later that he had a strange dream that night, and from then on he pours out a little bit of the wine of courage and tops it off with water. You and Deziel do the same, and you find it makes your head a little clearer. It hurts more when you take a blow to the ribs, or first kill a man with your sword at close quarters where you can feel his breath and have to twist the hilt to get it out of him, but your mind is sharper, and you feel a little more like yourself. 

One day you draw the name Brown Scorpion. They march you out of the city again, from dawn till dusk to the edge of a mountain. They let you rest until night has fallen, and then tell you that you have until dawn to find the way to the other side. They do not say what will happen if you can’t. You expect it by now. A slave who does not follow orders is not an Unsullied, and they have no place for slaves who aren’t worthy of that mantle here.

You do not set out straight away: you wait a little while for your eyes to adjust to the darkness before you start. Zharro does his best to keep you and Deziel together, but the three of you become separated in the darkness. You blunder along the rocky face, seeking a path through, and find nothing. You cut your hands on the jagged rocks and nearly crack your head open on the slope below when you try to scale a cliff bare handed. You start to despair as the moon journeys across the sky. It feels like any instant the sun will come up, and when it does you will die.

As your desperation grows, you think first of the Great Shepherd: but you can remember no prayers to him, if your mother even taught you any to begin with, so you’re reduced to humming the half-remembered tunes of the lullabies she sang to you. No way forward makes itself known. You take another desperate look around, and pause for a moment as you turn to the cliff face: in the moonlight, you almost think you see the face of the Lady of Spears again, looking down on you with flinty eyes the color of grey iron. 

You take a deep breath, and calm yourself. You look up at the moon, to try and gauge how much time remains to you: and then you see a star shining brightly, and remember what your mother had taught you about the Shepherd leaving his crook in the heavens to point West, to help guide his followers in the high pastures home with their flocks. Now you have a guide to point the way to the eastern slope, wherever else you might go. You pause for a moment to catch your breath, and hear the trickle of running water higher above you. It takes time to pick your way up the slope, but at last you manage it, and find a stream running downward, nourished, no doubt, by summer snowmelt. You look at the crook in the stars above to see which way it is flowing.

East. You smile and break into a jog, following its course downhill. It is a near thing, but you see the torches of where the Masters are camped after what feels like ages of running, and find Zharro and Deziel waiting for you when you sprint the last few yards to safety. Three boys do not make it back to camp in time. They die for it.

You remember seeing the Lady of Spears, and tell Zharro and Deziel of it in low tones, on the march back. “I think I should say something to her.” You tell them. That makes Deziel angry. He mutters all kinds of names for her under his breath, calls her the Bride of Eunuchs and the Killer of Dogs. “After everything she took from me,” he says, “I’d never pray to her, not even if she gave me my stones back.” Zharro thinks differently, chewing the idea over along with his bread when you stop to eat. “I will give her something with you.” He says. “When they give us our stew tonight, save the biggest piece of meat for her, and I’ll do it too.”

You do so, and that night when you dream, you see the Lady again. You say her true name, the one the Master whispered in your ear when he cut you, and she turns to you. Her eyes are weeping again, tears making tracks on the metal. You’re not sure what to do, but you know that you shouldn’t leave someone to cry, so you put your arms around her. Her metal body is cold, and the folds of her dress sharply dig into your ribs, so that you try and pull away. Her arms are wrapped tightly around you now, as hard as iron, but when you can’t help but let out a grunt of pain you find that in the next instant she is suddenly lo longer embracing you. Her eyes still weep, and now her face looks mournful enough to match it.

Then you hear a great din all around: the clashing of arms, a faint war cry, the song of a bird of some sort, and amidst it all you think you can hear a woman’s voice, faintly. _I am not fit to be a mother._ It says, sounding despairing. _No god ever fathered children by me. Imryana is gone, she who would gladly have nursed you, and soothed your fears and pains._ For a moment, the din subsides: but in a blink of an eye, the iron woman now stands beside you, her spear raised, her great shield held out to cover your body, as you have been taught to do for the boy to your left in training. The sounds of battle and birdsong come again: the war cry seems heartier, her voice louder. _I can do little for you, poor boys, who come in their thousands to the battle line for the sake of the lash, and not the Ghisa_ . She says. _But pledge yourself to the city, and hold the oath secret in your heart, even above the oath to your Master, and I will make you my Champion, and stand with you in the battle line._ The war cry wavers, the birdsong catches for a moment, one side of the battle seems to lose heart. _It is the only place that I can aid you_ , she says, and you awaken.

You share a look with Zharro when you wake, and you know without saying anything that he has seen the Lady too. Deziel is even angrier this morning than he was last night, but when you speak quietly about what the Lady told you to do he joins in, nodding sullenly. “What should we swear by?” he says. “We have no money to buy something to sacrifice. And I won’t give her another dog.” Zharro thinks for a moment. “They will test us in battle someday.” He says. “Whoever we kill, we’ll make him the offering.” You glance over at him, nervously. They will be watching you closely, the first time you go off to battle. You tell him as much. “And what will they punish us for, if they see us?” He says. “Killing someone they told us to?” There’s a lie behind his words. All of you know by now that the Masters do not need a reason to hurt you. They simply can, because they are the ones who hold the whips.

The day when you first face battle does not come straight away. It takes a year or two of further training with the three spears, of facing wild animals and slaves chained to stakes with wooden weapons, alone and in small groups. Deziel proves very good on his own, dispatching any foe with ease. He is still quick on his feet, even though he has grown a great deal taller and broader with the years. All of you remain hairless save for the stuff on your heads, though, and you never develop quite as much muscle as the men and boys you fight, staying thin and lithe. 

You see the Lady once more in those years, when you draw the name Green Fly. They gather you in a field outside the city walls, a place, the handsome Master tells you, where they once held games in and rituals in her honor. They have you dig a deep trench, and march to the woods to gather fuel that you heap into the trench. You go to a saltwater spring, and once again wash yourselves, and then you are each given a dove, and ordered to kill it and sprinkle its blood on the logs. When you have done so, the Masters light a fire in the trench, and give each of you a spear and shield, and even a helmet, though it is a very old style without a spike or ear-holes and with eye-holes instead of leaving your face open, so you feel deaf and half-blind to the world. The dove’s warm blood makes the spear feel slick in your hand, its crimson staining a palm print on the inside of your shield where you had adjusted it with your off-hand. 

One by one, the masters make you shout “ _Elelua!_ ” and leap the ditch in full armor, hopping back and forth over the heat of the flames, from one end of the trench to the other. Your turn comes, and when you shout _“Elelua!”_ the wind picks up, and the fire leaps higher. But you steel yourself and jump through it anyway. The heat singes you, but you pass through to the other side, and after only a moment’s pause shout _“Elelua!_ ” and jump again. You leap until the heat of the flames leaves sweat pouring down your brow, repeating the war cry even as the smoke nearly chokes you and turns your voice to a hoarse rasp. The fire whirls and dances, and every time you pass through it you feel a hot gust of wind at your back, as if to push you onwards. 

Eventually the flames begin to die down, and you are permitted to stop and drink deeply from another trough. The handsome Master is in a foul mood: he’d stood too close to the flames, and singed the edges of his fine golden _tokar_. He paces back and forth in front of you, lecturing you on duty and discipline, and the ways of the Mother of Hosts, how she demands absolute obedience from her followers to those who are their masters. The wind shifts and leaves him standing for a moment in a cloud of smoke and ash and embers: coughing and cursing, he steps away and barks for two of you to bring him water, that he may wash the soot off of himself. You stand at attention until the moon comes out overhead and the trench dies down to a bed of glowing coals, and then you are ordered to take off your sandals and form up in single file.

“You must fear nothing.” The Master says. “To disobey an order because you fear pain is like a sword bending in its wielder’s hand because it does not wish to bloody itself. Your life’s purpose, the whole of your being is to be a weapon in the hands of your Master, to shield him and strike at his foes even if it means that someday you will be chipped and bent and broken. Prove to me that you are weapons in my hands, that you do not fear pain. Forward march!”

You pace forward, hearing the sizzling of the coals as the line files across the trench. You wish you had drunk your full ration of the wine of courage. Then you see a figure in the haze thrown up by the heat of the embers, where smoke and moonlight mingle: the Lady, with her spear aloft. You straighten up and harden your heart, until it is your turn to go into the trench. 

The walls are almost the height of a man, and the old-fashioned helmet leaves you feeling trapped, only able to see the back of the boy in front of you in the flickering red glow. You can feel the heat of the coals upon the soles of your feet, but you find that by the time it threatens to burn you you are already taking another step. It is a steady, measured marching pace, though the tops of your feet really are singed when the boy in front of you kicks up the embers and scatters some there. You manage to kick them off without breaking stride, and hopefully without passing them on to the boy behind you.

It is a long walk: not half so long as the eight steps you took to fling Lamb into the Lady’s brazier, but it still feels like an eternity before you suddenly find your feet on warm earth again. You are ordered to wash your feet in cold water, which soothes your burns somewhat, and then you hand over the old helmets and march back to the arena with your arms and armor. You are so tired when you return that you fall asleep straight away, but in the morning you and Zharro and Deziel talk about it. It seems that walking across the coals has put Deziel back in good spirits: “I could have danced on those coals.” He tells you, and though he is always full of boasts, you think this one might be true.

You remember seeing the Lady in the fire, though, and remain mindful of her promise to make you her Champion, if you swear an oath to her. When the day finally comes to put it to the test, you draw the name Black Snail. You see that there are real, sharp weapons waiting for you in the arena that morning, and take great care to stand by Deziel and Zharro when you form up.

“You have spent enough time killing slave boys and beasts.” The handsome Master tells you. “Today it is time to face a real foe. You will face men from the fighting pits today, and you will kill them for me.” He calls your ten forward first: you form two rows of five, lock shields and raise your spears. Zharro is to your right, at the end of the line, Deziel to your left in the center. You feel your heartbeat quicken as a portcullis in front of you opens with a clattering of chains, and out step a motley assortment of men with all manner of weapons: warriors who look like Zharro with long braids and curved swords, tall, pale men with long beards and axes, weather-beaten warriors with spears of their own. You wait in silence as the men circle warily, the points of your spears shifting to follow them as your shields stay rock-steady. Finally, one of the tall braided warriors springs forward with a shout, and after a moment the others follow him.

Deziel scores the first kill, running the man through with his spear before yanking it out, muttering the words you had come up with years ago under his breath. It is only by repeating them day after day and night after night in your head that you can recall him at all. One of the men with spears lunges at him, and you shift your shield a little more to cover him, feeling the point skitter off its rounded boss. 

You see your opening then, and time seems to slow as you lash out, your spear-point burrowing into his side. He gives a grunt as you flick it free, and for a fanciful moment you think the trail of crimson droplets fanning out behind it looks like the tongue of a serpent. You say the words, quietly, through panting breaths. You speak the goddess’ true name, to get her attention. “A gift for you. I dedicate myself to the city.” You say, raising your spear and waiting as the rest of the pit-fighters fall back and watch the two men die in the dust. “My spear is yours.” Simple words, but you are not sure what rituals she prefers, know even less about it than you remember from your mother’s tales of the Great Shepherd. You shift your spear arm slightly, giving Zharro an encouraging nudge. Just him now.

The pit-fighters hesitate for a moment, their wild eyes glancing between you, their dead comrades, the points of your spears, the Masters watching from the balcony above. Something desperate in them makes them rally and charge again with a war cry. One of the burly, bearded axemen slams into your shield, and you might fall over if it weren’t for the rest of the formation working together to hold you upright. You reel for a moment, manage to make him stumble back a pace when the boys behind you help you push, try to press home a thrust with your spear before the man sinks his axe into your shield and splits it from the rim to the boss, jarring your arm and sending splinters flying. He tries to pull it out, but you twist it as you have been taught to yank the handle from his grasp and then Zharro buries his spear in his throat. You hear him mutter the words as his great bulk slams into the arena floor, kicking up dust that stings your eyes. 

Only three men are left now, their backs to the curved wall of the arena as if they are hoping the portcullis will open up again behind them and let them flee into the darkness. It does not. Deziel is bleeding from a cut to his ankle, Lyaro has taken cuts to his arms, but for the most part you stand, unharmed. You wait for a long time for them to attack again, but whatever compelled them to face your spears twice already is not strong enough to overcome the sight of seven dead bodies. You glance up at the Masters, looking increasingly bored as they watch from the balcony. The handsome one claps his hands impatiently. “Advance.” Zharro says, and the three men flinch as if the sound of ten boys stepping forward at once is as loud as a thunderclap.

That night you dream of the lady again, and while she remains all sharp angles of wrought iron, the green cloak she fastens around your shoulders feels as soft as your mother’s half-remembered caresses. _Well done, my Champion_ , her voice sounds amid the war cry and the birdsong and the chaos of battle: you think you can pick out more sounds now that you have stood in the line yourself: the nervous rattle of spears just before an enemy charge closes home, the panting gasps of exhausted breath, the shuffle of sandals in the dirt. _You are very brave, to spite your Masters in this way._ She says. _Stand by my left side, and I will shield you when I can._ Her face twists into a look of dismay, the birdsong dies away, the war cries turn to the sounds of a rout, and you recognize the sounds of a slaughter from your butchering of the pit-fighters. _But one last great test is coming, as it always does for you. And as always, it is one I cannot help you with._

You awake, and once again you talk over your dream with Zharro and Deziel, about how you might prepare. Deziel just shrugs; “What use is there in trying to predict the Masters?” He says. “We have done well so far.” You think differently. “We should still try and be ready.” You say, but when he asks “For what?” you have no answer. Zharro has thought of something though. You can see it in his eyes, on the way he sits alone most evenings as the months roll on and you face more armed foes, alone and in groups. Some boys die in the fighting; but by now most of you have been fighting your whole lives, and Zharro leads the ten of you through it without losing anyone. 

He talks less and less as the year goes by, save for inquiring after cuts and bruises, and giving you orders in battle. He takes two more trips to the Lady’s altar that you know of, though whether he has any more dreams of her he doesn’t say. Deziel, meanwhile, seems more confident than ever, once more whispering jokes as you all prepare for sleep and even laughing once or twice, a hastily-stifled chuckle where the masters might hear it more daring to all of you by now than charging a wall of infantry twice your number.

You grow bigger and stronger still, and better and better with your weapons. You take cuts and blows and hardly feel anything at all, brace for the charge without flinching, kill with only a faint pang of disgust that you are able to push down, deep. You’re not sure how much of it is the wine of courage, deadening you, and how much is the years of training starting to tell, but the Masters are happier either way. Soon, they hint, you will be ready. You still have no idea how you will face the trial the Lady warned you about.

On the day it comes, you draw the name Grey Scorpion.

When the first rays of sunlight are just beginning to chase away the night, you are ordered to form up in the plaza of the Lady of Spears, with your swords and armor, but no helms. You have not been allowed to wear the spiked helm that denotes an Unsullied, for you have not been proven fit to live up to such a legendary name. “Today,” the handsome Master tells you, “You will have the chance to prove yourselves.” Another Master walks down the line, giving each of you a silver piece. What will the test be? You know this must be it. They have never given you money before. Will they have you do something with it? Cast it into the brazier? Will you have to keep it for a whole year, as a sign of your value? There must be some skill they wish to test with it. But what?

“Today,” the handsome Master says, “You will go out and find a babe, still on the teat.”

You stand there, reeling with shock as you are told that you must bring the body back as proof. That if you do not do so by the close of day, you will die. That the silver piece is not to pay the mother, but the owner. You take the cup they give you with numb fingers, your head swimming at the heady scent of wine of courage. You drink half, and let the rest spill out of the sides of your mouth. It clings to your chin, and the cloying scent of it sticks in your nose. Beside you, Deziel sips it slowly, as if savoring it, and you are surprised to see the light of mischief in his eyes. Ahead of you, Zharro seems calm and unwavering, but when the wine of courage is given to him he drinks deeply.

You are walked to the gate of the arena in groups of ten, by Unsullied who have already earned their spiked helms. They do not escort you further. A number of you mill listlessly in front of the gates for a while, looking at the ground, at the sky, anywhere but each other as each of you wrestles with the task. Zharro’s expression is grave as he looks towards the Plaza of Pride, where slaves are bought and sold. He glances back towards you, and for a moment your eyes meet. “Go to your work,Grey Scorpion.” He says, and disappears into the crowd. Deziel, to your surprise, runs off in the wrong direction. You shout a warning to him, but he just smiles at you over his shoulder and likewise disappears.

Lyoro and the others seem to be sticking together; perhaps they think that it will be easier if they stand with each other, like when they are in formation. But you can’t bear to do this where they can see you. You slink off on your own. You wander down side streets and tell yourself that you are lost, though the way to the Plaza of Pride is well marked for all to see, and the din of its business is loud enough for all to hear: a hubbub of buyers arguing, slaves weeping and sellers crying their wares that gets louder and louder as your long, circuitous course brings you slowly but inevitably towards it.

When at last you enter the Plaza it is midday. You wander numbly through the stalls and stages, hearing a hubbub of languages, see a bewildering variety of dresses, from the voluminous robes of a Pentoshi magister to a quartet of Summer Islanders standing stark naked on a stage before a baying crowd. 

What will you do? Even you do not know. Your fear of finding out turns your feet away from any sounds of an infant’s wailing, because once you actually see one you will have no choice but to decide whether to obey the order or not, or worse, have to choose one child from among many. That’s probably why when you finally see the infant, it isn’t wailing, just sleeping soundly tucked into its mother’s side, a woman with brown hair and skin the color of brick dust, tenderly rocking it back and forth.

Your legs freeze up, and your heartbeat pounds in your temples as it hasn’t done since the day you were cut. Your breath comes faster and faster, until it seems you are hardly getting any air at all and you reel and stagger with stiff wooden-doll legs to lean against an awning. Your stomach feels as if there is a swarm of buzzing bees inside it, and amid the pounding of your heartbeat and the shortness of your breath and the sweat pouring down your brow you slowly, jerkily topple to your knees, fold in half and vomit up your breakfast. The wine of courage makes it look like congealed blood, dark and sticky and drying already on the cobblestones. The smell of it makes you retch again and you manage great, heaving gasps of breath, in like there is a boulder on your chest and out like you are being kicked in the stomach, in and out, in and out, until slowly but surely you clamber to your feet and totter towards the merchant standing near the woman, the man who owns the awning cursing at you all the while.

His face is mostly devoid of expression, save for a cocked eyebrow and an expectant nod, as if he knows you, as if this is not the first time a boy has staggered his way to the markets with a sword and a silver piece. Your hands start to shake and you feel the bile rising in your throat again and you have to shut your eyes when you turn to spit it out because you can’t bear to look at the mother or the child, and then the Master holds out his palm and quickly, before you can think about it you press the silver piece into his soft, gentle hands.

You hardly feel the weight of the form tucked against your side as you walk back towards the arena, hardly noticing the world around you or the scratch on your cheek where the mother had tried to claw out your eyes, the damp spot on your forehead where she spat on you as the Master dragged her away. The Unsullied step aside to let you enter, and the Master is pleased when you show him the body. You are one of the first back, and the news just makes you feel even less attached to the earth, as if you might just float away and leave your body behind to march and fight and kill all on its own. You wish you would. Somewhere at the back of your mind is a faint inkling of how crushing it will be when you come back from this strange floating feeling, and have to reckon with what you’ve done.

Lyaro and the other five slink back an hour later, their eyes downcast as they turn over their own small bundles. Lyaro’s is the smallest of all, and he can hardly bring himself to speak as the five of them stay together as if their closeness can shield them from the day’s events. But eventually, through gritted teeth, he forces out what he saw: how Zharro must have sought out a group of Dothraki with their long braids selling their catch. How he climbed the red brick fountain at the center of the market until he was at the feet of the great iron harpy that crowned it. How he called out to the Dothraki, told them his name and who his father was, and then dropped his breeches to show how the Masters had cut him and opened his belly with the dagger they had given him. The Dothraki had been angry, and left with their wares. What they did afterwards, he cannot say.

One by one, more boys trickle in. Almost all have passed the test. All but Deziel. You see the Masters grow bored, then angry as the sun sinks lower and lower in the sky until, at sunset, Deziel returns, sprinting into the plaza with a little bundle of bright cloth under his arm.

He stands before the Masters, and then abruptly drops the bundle. It sprawls in a puddle of cloth at his feet. His hands are empty.

The handsome Master notices this right away. “Idiot slave!” he roars. “Where is the child! Where is my silver piece?” Deziel smiles. “This one went to the Plaza of Pleasure, and hired a whore instead.” He says, and then begins to laugh like you have never heard him laugh before. The Master swears loudly, angrier than you have ever seen him, pulls out his whip and lashes at Deziel until he is a bloody form curled up on the flagstones. He barks an order, and the Unsullied come and whisk him away. “You will go to the Plaza of Punishment for this, filth. _Wretch_.” He says. “You have not an inkling of what your stupidity has thrown away. But you will.” Deziel hardly seems to hear him, and you can still see his shoulders shaking, and hear a wet, wheezing chuckle as he’s carried off.

The Master manages to regain his composure at nightfall, when you stand in formation before the altar. Like always, you do not turn a head, but not because you fear punishment. You’re just afraid of having to look each other in the eye. The handsome Master praises you. “You have shown yourselves to be fine weapons today.” he says. “Well-honed and well-tempered by the hands of careful craftsmen. You will remember this day all your lives, as the day you became more than mere men, the day you became a part of a new lockstep legion for a new Ghis, perfected by its inheritors. When you still went by your old names, and were cradled in the arms of your own mothers, you were nothing. But as Unsullied, you have become priceless. You have become the pride of the Good Masters of Astapor, the pride of the Ghiscari.”

He lets you wait in silence for a moment more. “Some of you have failed.” He says. “And tomorrow they will be punished. You will march to the sea and clean yourselves once more, in preparation for the morning after, when you will finally be given the arms of an Unsullied.” He dismisses you, and you slink back to the cellar in silence, still not able to even look at each other. That floating feeling is still with you as you shut your eyes and sink into a fitful sleep. For the first time in a long time, you can hear some of the boys crying.

Your night is plagued by bad dreams, dreams of blood and crying and spitting, scratches and curses and the clatter of a silver piece. Dreams of Zharro, standing with you in the battle line, Zharro, who had promised that each of you would have five good horses, and one each for the rest of your family, to ride the Great Grass Sea he’d never seen when a father he’d never met came to free him. Dreams of Deziel, telling jokes when the rest of you were too frightened to even speak, making you raise your shield to hide a nervous smile when he sent a Master sprawling into the dust. You still feel as if you’re floating when you wake in the morning, your head foggy from having hardly slept at all. You think nothing of mechanically wiping the dampness off your cheeks.

The rest of Zharro and Deziel’s group of ten are ordered to stand guard over Deziel’s torment. You are put in charge of them, and lead the march to the Plaza of Punishment, a bloodied Deziel dragged by a camel behind you, the red brick dust of Astapor’s streets scraping his skin like glass. He manages to avoid crying out. When they chain him between two posts, he smiles bravely at you. Seeing the fear in his eyes starts to bring you back into your own body. He tries to face his punishment with a laugh, but that ends quickly when they take a dragonglass scourge to him and put him to the brands. 

You stand at attention with spear and shield in hand, and walk in the high, ceremonial step you have learned through long hours on the drill field, around and around the two posts where Deziel is chained, as he screams and screams and an endless procession of carts and merchants and citizens stream past, some turning to stare, most too used to the spectacle to give it their attention. Every sound he makes, every time he begs and then simply wheezes when his body grows too ravaged to beg anymore, every step you take settles the crushing weight of what you did yesterday pressing down upon your body, heavier and heavier and heavier until you think your head might burst. To try and distract yourself, you count the number of paces before you make a sharp turn, tracing out a neat, impassive square around Deziel as he dies slowly, and badly. 

It is the new longest eight steps of your life.

Towards the end, you think that you should fall on your sword. Should plunge it into your belly and rip it open like Zharro did at the fountain. But your hands keep clutching tightly to your shield and spear, holding them impassively as you walk, eight steps at a time, with the others trailing behind you. It would only be one more dead boy by the main gate, and it would seem like nothing next to Deziel.

In the end, finally, mercifully, he falls silent. They thrash him and burn him and flay him for a little longer still, to make sure he is dead or to make a point, you don’t know which. Then comes the long march back. You would give anything not to have to lead the column of eight, to be able to simply focus on keeping time with the one in front of you. Zharro had always taken that burden, every day since they had first made a leader of him. Perhaps that was why he had the strength to put a sword through himself, while you don’t, even after beginning to comprehend the horror of what you had done. What Zharro and Deziel had had the courage not to do. Perhaps that is why Lyaro and the other six boys follow your lead like frightened ducklings: they are all bound together by the shame of still living, while Zharro and Deziel had had the courage to die rather than inflict death on something so helpless. Perhaps that is why the Masters order you to do it, you realize, walking along the road to the coast and trying to muster the courage to break ranks and hurl yourself from one of the pyramids. They want you to understand how worthless your own life is.

You come to the beach, and once again you dive in headfirst, the others following after you. You hardly feel the cold, the sting of the salt spray from waves whipped into a froth by a strong wind. You scrub and scrub and scrub, pour the water in handfuls over your head even as it stings your eyes, grab a fistful of loose sand and scrape your skin roughly with it as the current carries you out into deeper waters. Think about how the mother had looked at you after you handed over the silver piece, when you ripped the little child from her arms and reached for your dagger. Like you weren’t even human. Perhaps you aren’t anymore, after all that. You close your eyes, take a deep breath and let yourself sink.

You sink down farther than you had last time, holding still. It is easier not to kick your feet or move your arms. You blow out bubbles, watch them on their course to the surface, to the sunlight glittering on the ripples the waves leave behind. This is how it will happen, you decide. You don’t have the courage to fall on your sword, or leap from a ziggurat or make a suicidal attempt to kill a Master. But it doesn’t take courage to simply sit there, to wait at the bottom until your lungs give out and the water rushes in. You open your stinging eyes as far as you can, and peer into the deep. Perhaps you will see something interesting while you wait. Something to take your mind off of what you’ve done. You are owed at least that much, you think.

Instead, you see the shape of the Lady of Spears, her eyes looking back at you from out of the deep. A current has got hold of you, and it seems to be dragging you back towards the beach. You have to kick your legs against it, thrash your arms to stay where you are, down here, where your air is running out. Then, in the stillness of the water, you swear you can hear the clashing of arms. A battle cry. Birdsong, of all things.

_Go back, little hero. Let me carry you a while._

Your arms and legs are moving slower and slower, unable to keep fighting the riptide that drags you in and up, until the surface is only an arm’s length away and your kicks are carrying you upward, until you break through into the warm summer air, and take a deep breath in to soothe your burning lungs. 

Most of the boys are sitting on the beach, looking out at the sunlight on the waters. You can see one shape still in the water, even farther out from the shore than you, tossed up and down by the waves. Their foaming caps look like the manes of horses, and that reminds you of Zharro, standing with you in the battle line, asking you if you were sleeping well as if he could do something to fix it, promising you a place of honor beside him on the Great Grass Sea when he had only known you for a day. You swim towards the distant figure of the boy.

It is Lyaro, staring out at the sunset. You call his name, but he does not respond, so in the end you simply hook your arm around his chest and start to drag him back towards the shore. It is hard going, but once you have swum for a little while he starts as if waking from a dream, and then he swims with you, towards the other boys huddled together on the beach.

You dress and don your sandals, and the other boys do likewise, and then you lead the way as you march back towards the arena. Before you head to sleep, you go to the beds of the other seven, sharing a nod with some, or just a look with others. You are not sure what to do about the stricken expression in Lyaro’s eyes, so you put a hand on his shoulder as you once did for Zharro, and give him a pat on the back as he heads for bed.

That night you see the Lady of Spears again, holding Zharro cradled in the crook of one arm and Deziel in the other, weeping. One side of the battle is faltering, the war cry hoarse and hesitant, the bird sounds weak and sickly. _Oh, my poor heroes._ She says. _My poor champions_ . She tries to hold them close to her, but the iron of her body cuts their skin, stains her arms and the glimmering razor-sharp folds of her dress with blood. At the sight of it, the battle and the war cry and the birdsong grow to a roar so deafening you put your hands over your ears. _SACRILEGE_ . She shouts. _DEFILEMENT. SENDING SLAVES TO THE BATTLE IN MY NAME. OFFERING ME THE MANHOOD OF BOYS IN CHAINS, YEAR UPON YEAR._ Something flickers in her iron-grey eyes, the hellish light of a burning city, the red of sunlight striking blood and bronze. 

And then the noise dies away, fainter than you have ever heard it, and in another blink the fire is gone and she is weeping again, hunched over the lacerated, broken bodies as if to shield them, even as she crushes them and slices them to ribbons. _And I can do nothing._ She says. _I am so sorry, little champion_. She says, turning to you. _A goddess’ favor should earn you more. But_ _all I can do is help you live, where they would have you die._

That last part stays with you as you awaken, don your clothes and drink the wine of courage and wait for the Masters to bring you out. You go around to the other eight, help them make their beds and get their clothes in order. They want you to die for them, so they can turn you into another part of the great Legend of the Unsullied, another story they will spin for buyers eager to find soldiers who do not shrink from killing children. They want you to die so they have an empty place to fill with some other boy, bought for nearly nothing and sold for a fortune. 

The Lady of Spears will help you live. It is not the grand gesture Zharro displayed, or Deziel’s great joke, but it is something. To still be here, after all that they have done to you. To value the lives of those around you, to guard them as well as you can. Paltry though it is, it is all that you can do anymore.

So you keep your head held high as you draw your name and don your armor and take up the spear and shield, as you march out to the square where the brazier and the altar is kept. One by one, you step forward and touch your hand to the statue of the Lady of Spears, and swear an oath to obey your rightful Master in all things, whomever they might be, whatever they might ask of you, until you die. And when your turn comes, you keep your secret oath foremost in your mind, hide it away in your heart. 

They give you a helm, one with three spikes, the mark of an officer. “You are Unsullied.” The handsome Master says, as you place the helm on your head. It feels heavier than any you have ever worn.

Mazdan, you remind yourself. You are Mazdan, though for most of your life you have gone by another name, a name that changes every morning. You are Mazdan, friend of Deziel the light-footed and Zharro son of Bhato, sworn champion of the lady of Spears. Infant-killer. Soldier. Survivor.

Today you drew the name Brown Cockroach.

**Author's Note:**

> The longest and bleakest thing I have ever written, but I felt the need to do so after revisiting the Unsullied and how they are trained. It's such a brutal, broken, hopeless process, and I think even George himself misses the horrendous implications of making super soldiers by turning Spartan training and the making of Janissary slave soldiers up to eleven. The show even moreso, showing them off as badasses and making fun of their mutilation so that the lurking horror of what was done to them fades into the background.
> 
> The Unsullied are based off of the Lockstep Legions of Old Ghis, who are in turn based off of real-world Greek hoplites and the army of the Roman Republic, and what makes that so perverse is that real hoplites and Roman soldiers were free men who stood together in the name of their city: what the Greeks called the polis, what I have chosen to have the Lady of Spears call the Ghisa because I'm not a linguist and it's not the first time George has made a wide variety of words in an Essosi language spring from one root. What I'm driving at is that the men who fought at Marathon, whose last stand at Thermopylae is what the story of the Three Thousand Unsullied is obviously based on, were not tortured children (except for the Spartans, whose famous brutal training did not even make them notably more effective in actual combat, as the blog A Collection of Unmitigated Pedantry's series called This Isn't Sparta explains.) 
> 
> It's true today in Africa and the Middle East, it was true in ancient times, it was true in the Middle Ages that George purportedly draw on for "historical inspiration": you don't need to brutalize someone for years on end, torment them and "harden" them with cruelty, to make them good, courageous soldiers. If they are fighting for something they love, if they are standing with people they know and trust, they will be brave enough for any battle. 
> 
> Every Unsullied we see in the series is a tragedy: worse, they're a horribly unnecessary tragedy. That's why I wrote this piece, and it's something (along with other parts of Unsullied life) what I want to talk about when I write more of Mazdan's story.
> 
> As for the Lady of Spears, well... Imagine if after the Roman conquest of Greece the entire Greek Pantheon had vanished from memory, save for Athena, the goddess of the citizen soldier, her only followers young boys twisted into a mockery of everything she represented: young boys she is powerless to help, because she is a goddess of soldiers, not children, because all the gods in charge of other parts of life are gone and cannot return, and she is still bound by the limits of her sphere. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed reading it. Please leave a comment, and let me know what you thought of it.


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